Today's poem is Passengers by Lynne Benoit. It is read by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc.
Passengers
I slow the van to let my lover cross the street.
So curious to me, this newborn stranger,
my inward stare
Unnoticed by anyone in the passenger seat.
A boxed-tight moment, we are so polite.
Steamed day, window down
To diesel air,
I slow this van to let my lover cross the street.
We make no scene for the one in my passenger seat,
Keep our secret with pedestrian flair.
My lover
Steps in — aware — feels me watch him cross the street.
This tornado loves you, he breathed to me
Borrowed words,
But I didn't care,
Once beside him, in a passenger seat.
Now I wait, silent and severed again, repeat
His leaving, my muscled slam
Of car doors
Turned tremors. Look, he's nearly crossed the street,
Toward a peculiar fatigue, a new tumorous disease.
Unnoticed. A mass.
His passenger.
Gentle rider, what do we owe for relief?
When slowed, one's lover crosses the street.